Bus Ride

May 31, 2009

At this time of day the sun is a narrow boat of light.
It lingers on the tops of trees; the fences are brighter.

The sky is a sheet of cobolt blue, the telegraph poles
make crossword puzzles; the landlocked horizon shimmers sea.

At this time of day the sun dies beautifully – it’s death
is a slant on a terracotta field: the glinting sky,

amber on the road, the gilt – circling the paving stones
like the correct answers, on a geography test paper.

At this time of day, a golden city will fit itself
into what’s already there; the sun floats like an orange.

It illuminates an apple that fits inside my hand.
It runs along my wrist like a glove of yellow sand

At this time of day, the world is made of softened gold
For an hour like a light box, I think of nothing else

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In prog…

May 4, 2009

The Mould Man came today
to see the culture I’d grown in my walls
to see the pictures of shadows and lines
to read their maps like cracks in my palms

The Mould Man came today
with his canvas bag of Mould Man tricks
with his potions and tools and low slung jeans
with his tiny trowel to smooth over bricks.

The Mould Man came today
and I sat in lounge with my hands in my lap
and I told him how it had all happened
and he listened whilst painting over the black

The Mould Man came today
he listened to secrets in walls
he brushed them like prints off an apron
he folded them into a bag while we talked

The Mould Man came today
this man from the council of mould in the sky
this taker of things that I gave him
this lifter of spores, this man, in the night.

Mold

May 4, 2009

There’s a town in Wales called Mold
but it’s not like the stuff in my flat,
though it’s old French name
means High Hill
and me my mould
have a tower block.

But we’ve never hosted the National Eisteddfod
we’ve never possessed a network of trains
and our railway was never dissembled
to make room for a Tesco
to service our tastes.

And we never had
The Great Mold Riot
I never angered my mould
by announcing a paycut
I never banned the use of its language
being spoken by miners inside of my flat.

And we never discovered
a cape made of gold
and sent it to the British Museum –
we only have china
that’s slightly cracked
and blossoms of mould
like blue perineums.

Oh Mold of my Mould
that’s not my Mould
I and my Mould salute you.
We hope you are happy
ontop of your hill –
maybe one day
we’ll come see you.

Mould Man Re-re-draft

May 4, 2009

The Mould Man came today
and I’ve waited for him for so long
but he wasn’t what I had expected
no gas mask or boiler suit front.

But The Mould Man came like a prophet
sent by the agents, of De Montfort House
and he sealed up the walls in the bathroom
and painted them blue like an arctic cloud.

And The Mould Man had an answer for everything:
the death trap of wires rolled up by the door,
for the man from Bar Roma with children,
the famous poet I’d met while he toured.

He leaned on a door like a salesman
he listened to secrets like shadows on walls
he brushed them like prints off an apron
and folded them into a bag while we talked

And he wasn’t what I had expected
this man from the council of mould in the sky
but he left with the things that I told him
silent as spores, or a man, in the night.

The mould man came today
and he ripped out the floor in my kitchen,
he ripped out the units
underneath my kitchen sink,
and he fitted me with a larger cupboard,
he crawled under the bath, to get at a leak.

And the mould man came today
and I’ve waited for him for so long
but he wasn’t what I had expected
no gas mask or boiler suit front.

But the mould man came like a prophet
sent by the agents, of De Montfort House
and he sealed up the walls in the bathroom
and painted them blue like an arctic cloud.

And the mould man had an answer for everything –
for the death trap of wires rolled up by the door,
for the man from bar roma with children,
the famous poet I’d met while he toured.

He brushed all the secrets like saw dust
pressed them like flowers, against kitchen towels
he lifted them cleanly, like mould must
and folded them gently, their delicate growls

And he wasn’t what I had expected
this man from the council of mould in the sky
but he left with the things that I told him
silent as spores, a man in the night.